


You Don't Want To Run Away (And I Won't Let You Anyway)

by thefairfleming



Series: The Long Way To You [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming





	You Don't Want To Run Away (And I Won't Let You Anyway)

Margaery has just poured her second cup of tea- or, more accurately, her maid has just poured it for her- when the soft knock comes at the door as it does every morning. Although, she thinks as she flicks her eyes to the crystal and marble clock on the mantle, it’s usually a bit earlier than this.

Still, she gives the footman the slightest nod to indicate he should open to door for his king. It’s well within Jon’s rights to walk into any room in the palace he chooses whenever he chooses, but she insists on this little ritual, and, she suspects, Jon enjoys it every bit as much as she does.

Her husband is already dressed for the day as he enters her rooms, although his tie dangles from one hand, and he hasn’t shaved. Another part of their ritual, letting her sit on the counter in her bathroom in a particularly un-queenly manner, his thighs between her knees as she drags a razor across his cheeks and throat.

His beard abrades her skin pleasantly as he ducks his head to kiss her cheek with a murmured, “Morning,” and Margaery tilts her head to let his lips press tight against her skin, simply humming in reply, her tea cup already lifted to her mouth.

All it takes is a flick of her gaze to have her maid turning to leave the room, the footman behind her. Royalty is rarely alone, but this is something else Margaery insists upon. Her husband belongs to his country nearly every hour of every day, but for less than an hour each morning, she wants him to be only hers.

When she’d first told him of this desire, for them to share breakfast in her rooms each morning like a normal married couple, he’d chuckled, his hand coming up to cup her face. They’d been in bed, sweat still drying on their skin, hearts hammering, and he’d pointed out, quite reasonably, that she got him to herself every night. They kept separate chambers, following custom, but Jon still slept in her bed, leaving just after dawn to bathe and dress in his rooms.

She’d turned her head, nipping at the thumb he had swept over her bottom lip. “But that’s sex,” she’d told him, enjoying the way his eyes darkened, either from the bite or from the way she let the word become a purr in her mouth. “And sometimes- not often, mind you, but every once and awhile- I’d like you for more than just that.”  
He’d smiled at that, one of those slow grins that transformed his face. The first time he’d smiled at her like that, they’d been hidden away in one of the palace’s libraries, cigarette smoke curling between them, and Margaery had known then that this, her latest and grandest political marriage, might actually have potential.

Now, as Jon sits across from her, reaching for the coffee she always has sent up for him, she studies him over the rim of her cup, noting that as she sits back, his eyes follow the way her silk robe parts just so.

“You’re late,” she tells him, and Jon glances up.

“I was hiding from you,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows.

“For what reason?”

With a slight grimace, he takes a sip of coffee, leaning back in his seat. It’s a blatantly masculine pose, knees apart, arms resting on the sides of the chair, head tilted down, and really, as his queen, she should chide him about his posture. As his wife, however, she’s content to simply drink in the view.

“Have you not seen the papers this morning?” Jon asks, and Margaery looks over to the stack just left of her plate. She has the papers brought in every morning, but she only looks through them on occasion, and this morning, for some reason Ellen had put them all facedown. As she overturns the first one, Margaery suddenly understands why.

“Oh, my,” she says mildly, taking in a very large color photograph of her and Jon from the charity benefit the night before. They are just outside the venue, walking in together, Jon’s arm around her waist.  Jon is actually smiling, which is an improvement over most of the photos that end up in the papers, and she is pleased to see that the color of her dress photographed as well as she’d thought it would. But neither her husband’s smile nor how lovely that shade of green looks in print is what draws her eyes.

Rather, it’s Jon’s hand very firmly placed on her emerald-silk sheathed arse.

“According to the headline,” Margaery says, squinting even though she can read the tall letters perfectly well, “you give my bum the ‘royal seal of approval.’”

Lifting her gaze to his, she smirks. “Is that true? Do you?”  
Groaning, Jon scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t even remember doing that. I remember wanting to do it the moment you walked out in that dress, but I thought I’d kept my hand safely around your-,” he waves both hands in her general direction- “hip area.”

Rising from her seat, Margaery saunters over to stand in front of Jon. He’s still slumped in his chair, watching her with a mixture of fondness and wariness, an expression he wears often with her. And it’s true, this is normally the sort of breach of conduct she’d scold him- albeit gently- for.

But she’s not in the mood for scolding this morning.

Lifting his hands from where the lay on the armrests, she places them firmly on her hips, watching how his eyes fall to where his fingers grip the silk of her robe. He takes a deep breath and she asks, “Do my hips not also deserve your seal of approval, Your Highness?”

One corner of his mouth lifts in a near-smile. “Margaery,” he says on something between a sigh and a groan. He doesn’t always like when she uses his title when it’s just the two of them, but something tells her he’ll allow it this time.

Covering his hands with hers again, Margaery slides them up the silk of her robe, bringing them up where it gaps just over her breasts. He doesn’t need her encouragement to let his palms slide inside, and both of them draw in slightly unsteady breaths as his thumbs rub over her nipples.

“And these?” Margaery’s voice only wavers a bit. “Do these meet with your approval, majesty?”

“I don’t like that game,” Jon says, gruff even has his fingers move over her with a gentleness she hadn’t known until him.

“The hell you don’t,” she replies, leaning down and carding her own fingers through his hair, tugging as their lips meet. It’s a fierce, hot kiss, a meeting of mouths and tongues that has Margaery making a low mewling sound as she lets herself sink into his lap.

When they part, Jon’s hands slide from inside of her robe to tug at the knot that holds it closed.

“Is there something else you’d like to approve?” Margaery pants with a smile, and when the robe finally falls open, revealing her naked underneath, Jon’s answering grin is downright wolfish.

His fingers part her folds, finding her hot and wet, and Margaery’s hand shoots out to steady herself against the table. She upsets the teapot, and as Darjeeling spreads across the linen tablecloth, Jon rubs and circles and unstitches her completely.

“Too fucking right there is,” he all but growls, and Margaery distantly hears the breaking of china as she lets him lay her down on her breakfast table. 


End file.
